by Oskar Jensen
Beneath the blasted trees lay a long, hulking, low shape that at first she took for a hall, roofed with turf. Or it might have been a whale, beached absurdly far inland and weltered all over with seaweed and barnacles. Or, the fallen mother of all trees.
But of course, it was none of these things. It was a troll, dying.
‘Astrid?’ said Leif, in a vole-sized voice. ‘Astrid, do you think that we can help it?’
A moan came from the felled troll then, sad enough to break her heart, and deep enough to break rocks. This morning’s sacrifices had been nothing, she realised: if a hundred bulls had lowed a lament, it would not have come close to this.
‘Aurnir, my eldest son,’ said the troll. ‘A handsome lad, he was. But now he’s faced the beast; brought low with a death-hurt.’
Now Astrid could make out his head, his limbs, his chest, and saw the awful gash across his side. The wound was deep, and raw, and out from his innards there welled a tarry substance that must have been his blood.
‘That was some blow, to bring down a troll,’ she breathed. ‘See the edges of it, too? They’re almost charred …’
In fact, she now saw what must have been burns all over its body. But she thought better of mentioning this to Leif: he’d fainted once already. So she looked instead at its pain-wracked face. Its eyes were closed; it clearly had no idea they were there. It wouldn’t be long now.
‘What could have caused this kind of harm?’ said Leif.
The troll-mother was sobbing now, and a small waterfall of mud and slime began to fall. Swiftly, the two of them stepped back, as she tried to reply.
‘It hailed from the hawk-land,
High and grim and shining.
It brought the bright hall-wolf,
Bad thiever of forests.
‘Its fast battle-fire
Fell swift on my Aurnir;
A flurry of wind-oars
Overcame his attacks.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Astrid, ‘but I just don’t understand. What kind of man, or … or monster …’
But it was no use. Grief overwhelmed the giant creature, and she staggered back into the arms of the other two trolls. Tremors rocked them where they stood.
The sorrow-stricken troll made one last attempt at speech.
‘My Svadi and Svarang
Support me as I fall.
But they cannot thwart this,
These last of my children.
I fear for my two sons;
Fierce is the bright slayer.
We look to you, thumblings,
To halt its … its …’
Her final words were drowned in a wild howling. Instantly, her sons joined in, inconsolable as babies and unstoppable as a storm. The trolls began beating their breasts, stamping the unstable earth in their total despair.
Leif stood his ground. ‘We will help you, and stop what caused this hurt,’ he managed to say. Then Astrid seized his arm and tugged him aside, as a colossal foot descended. ‘Run!’
And they ran.
TEN
As soon as they were well clear of the demented trolls – and, incredibly, back on the path – the pair slowed to a gasping, gulping halt. In the distance, the mayhem continued, sounding like a series of small eruptions, sending whole flocks of waterfowl flying.
Leif was panting, eyes wild. ‘Trolls! Oh, Astrid! I’ve never been so scared …’
Astrid stared at him. ‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘I’d have thought, being raised by dwarfs, you’d be more prepared for something like this.’
‘Oh Hel, Astrid, there never were any dwarfs! Come on; let’s get out of here.’
‘Oh, you’re not going anywhere!’ She was seriously cross now. ‘Not till you explain what you just said.’
‘Not right now, it’s not the time –’
‘Leif, it’s the perfect time. We’re alone. It’s still dark. We’ve got a lot of walking to do. And if you don’t start telling the truth – the whole truth – well, there’s no one to see me bury you in this bog. I’ll do it. I swear I will!’
‘Oh, I believe you.’ He was still struggling for breath, doubled up, hands on knees. ‘I made a mistake, I can see that now. I should have told you, Astrid. And I will. But promise me that this goes no further?’
She softened. They’d both just come through the fright of their lives, after all. ‘You, me and the fen. No further,’ she promised.
‘Then I’ll tell you.’ Slowly, shakily, the two began to pick their way northwards, and Astrid listened, as Leif told, once more, the story of his life.
‘Since I was born, I’ve lived in Hedeby. I never knew my father, just his name: he came from foreign parts, and soon moved on. He was a Jew, or a Muslim, I think – one of those ones who can’t eat pork, you know? My mother died in giving birth to me; her father died for Gnupa in the war against the Saxons, many years ago.’
‘Hedeby!’ Astrid let out a whistle. Hedeby was the richest town in Gorm’s kingdom, far down on the east coast, right by the German border. Gorm had defeated the young King Sigtrygg of Hedeby, son of this Gnupa, some six years before she was born, and now the place was a magnet for traders from across the whole world. She’d often longed to see it.
Hedeby, in other words, was about as much like a dwarven cave, as the moon was like a duck.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your family,’ she said. ‘But oh, I could so punch your face right now!’
‘Do you want to hear my story or not?’
She had no answer to this.
‘So, then: my mother’s father was a Dane. My mother’s mother was a Finn, who brought me up alone. She taught me all I know. She must have had some magic in her blood, and got by as a healer … and a witch. From her, I learnt of runes, and charms, and gods. She was a fine poet in her own right, though no one wished to hear a woman’s words.’
‘Don’t I just know it,’ Astrid muttered.
‘She loved me very much, and made a plan that, once she was no more, I’d come up north to earn my keep and win my name with Gorm. That story, with the fox and dwarfs, was hers: she thought that it would help to get me in. And, of course, explain away my dark skin … This plan – for my success – was all she had.’
‘But – hang on – if there were no dwarfs, then what about that sword? Even Weland’s never seen its like.’
‘My father left it, out of guilt, I think. It comes from Toledo, a city in the south; they call those letters “Arabic”. My grandmother told me I could go far with such a sword – but not by wielding it.’
‘I can believe all this,’ said Astrid, after a long pause. ‘I mean, I only half believed your last story: this is all far more convincing. But I still don’t know where I am with you. The visions, the magic …’
Anger was rising within her again like the uncoiling of a serpent. ‘And now I’ve heard both a troll and a witch say they recognise you, and that you’re, I don’t know, fated to make mysterious choices and avert some great danger. Just who are you, Leif? Who the Hel are you?’
‘I’m Leif. Just Leif. And, so I thought, your friend.’
She could tell she’d really hurt him this time, and tried to speak, but Leif went on. ‘You think I want to roll round on the floor? To be suspected by my only friend? I’ve no idea where those things came from. I didn’t ask for them, I didn’t want …’
He took a deep breath, trying to control himself. ‘I hadn’t planned to get lost in a bog, or stomped by trolls, or any of those things. I’m just a town boy, not used to the wilds. And Jelling’s not like home. The stones, the trees – the whole place hums with magic! If I knew I’d get these trances, then I’d never have come. The plan was simple, and it would have worked. But ever since that night, back in the gorge, so many things – odd things – it’s all so hard …’ He turned his face away.
‘All right, all right! No need to cry.’ She paused. Tried to be more helpful. ‘Though, if you wanted to cry, I wouldn’t be able to tell. It’s dark; you’re cove
red in slime anyway. Just so you know.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, wetly.
Astrid was beginning to brighten. ‘I suppose, if all you wanted was an easy life, arm-rings from the king and a good spot on the bench, it must seem more than you bargained for. But isn’t it exciting? All this dark foreboding, I mean. Jelling’s always been a strange place, but this is something else! Omens, trolls, some mysterious “beast” on the loose. It’s just like in Beowulf!’
‘Yes, all those things,’ he said. ‘And then … there’s you.’
‘Me? What do you mean, me?’
‘Oh, Astrid. Astrid … Tell you what; forget that I said that. But please … Astrid … trust me?’
‘All right,’ said Astrid. ‘All right. I trust you.’
ELEVEN
The wan light of before-dawn found them stumbling along the half-there path: two sodden, spattered figures, clutching each other for support, still sinking in bog up to their knees whenever they put a foot wrong.
A remorseful whinny broke in on their torment.
Astrid raised her head. ‘Oh, there you are, Hestur.’ Her voice was dull, empty of surprise. Already half asleep, they groped their way onto his back, and he began the long walk homewards.
Slumped against Astrid, arms around her, gently bobbing on Hestur’s back, Leif began to feel the pull of heavy magic. ‘No,’ he twitched. He didn’t want any of that. No prophecies, no visions. He had never been so content in all his life as at that moment: trusted, and tired, and just where he wanted to be. But that place – caught between waking and sleeping – was a dangerous one, where the otherworld was always near, and strange things skulked in the shadows of dreams.
Astrid felt the boy’s whole body stiffen at her back, and wriggled closer down on Hestur’s neck. She was deep in a dream of her own. It was all about sausages.
The world was grey, pale, ghastly, streaked with the glimmering of dawn. Leif could tell that something had shifted, somewhere, and the hackles rose on his neck. ‘Is anything … is anybody there?’ he whispered.
Silence. Just the steady, squelchy clop of Hestur’s hoofs.
And then the horse turned its heavy head, to look him full in the face, and its eye was made of stone.
Leif almost fell from its back, digging in at the last moment with heel and nails to keep his seat. Hestur, normally so flighty, walked on as if nothing were happening. But that dead, baleful, stony eye remained fixed on Leif.
‘What are you?’ said Leif, his voice low. It was crazy, talking to a horse – but then, after the trolls, he was ready to believe anything.
Hestur’s mouth barely moved, a rasping, sibilant hiss all that escaped the large, yellow teeth. ‘We are sisters; we are stone,’ came the hiss.
‘The Yelling Stones?’
‘The same. Three visions we have sent you; now we use this vessel.’
‘You sent me the visions? Then, why speak now?’
‘The time for games is at an end: the blood begins to run. A danger comes to Jelling that may spell the end for all.’
‘The beast? This thing that killed the troll, you mean?’
‘Something bigger. Something new. This beast is but its weapon. It comes to kill our kin – troll, witch, dis, dwarf – and to steal our power. We look to you, small one, to find out what it is.’
‘To me?’
‘We are stone; still; lifeless. You are flesh, you are blood and bone, speed and skill. Find this thing out. Before it is too late.’
‘I swore already I would help the trolls. But why choose me? Jelling has its heroes …’
The hiss redoubled, venomous, bitter. ‘Seek help from those followers of Thor and of Odin? Those who slay wolves and witches? Never! Your skin is dark. You are raised in word and magic. You do not belong with these proud, pale Danes. What better champion could we choose?’
Leif was stung. ‘Well, and what of Odin?’ he retorted. ‘Are the gods of no use in this battle?’
‘Odin and the rest take shelter within Asgard’s walls and wait for Ragnarok, the end of the world; only his two ravens stray about the earth. And the beat of their wings has not been felt at Jelling for many ages. They are too blind to see what all our kin can sense: this is the battle that needs fighting, here and now. If you fail us, then the old world falls, and Ragnarok will never come to pass.’
For a long time, Leif was mute, struggling to take this in. ‘You … you want me to save the world from not being destroyed?’ he managed, at last.
The hiss changed, almost a laugh – the wretched, wheezing cackling of crones. Hestur’s unsuspecting mouth contorted to a rictus grin, lips drawn back obscenely. Leif sensed the strength of the magic fading; could see the stony eye crumbling into dust.
‘Wait!’ he said. ‘There’s more I have to know. The other witch, the one that rode the wolf, she said that I have to make three choices …’
But the eye that blinked back at him was wet, brown, stupid. Hestur turned his head away with a shiver and a whinny; Astrid stirred and mumbled. That uncanny presence had withdrawn, leaving a boy, a girl and a horse, alone upon the earth.
TWELVE
‘I think it’s a dragon,’ said Astrid, and then, ‘Pass me the soap.’
They had slipped through Jelling unseen – it was still early – and crept into the privacy of the steaming bathhouse to get clean.
Leif recounted his conversation with the stones as best he could. He seemed distracted by something, and kept looking at a bare patch of wall.
Astrid had no idea why: all she was doing was having a good scrub …
‘Not a dragon. The stones said “something new”,’ said Leif.
‘They weren’t exactly helpful,’ Astrid said. ‘And I mean, they’re only stones. They’re just as much in the dark as we are.’
‘I wish the troll-mother had been clearer,’ Leif said.
‘Well, poems are your lookout, after all. Towel?’
He handed it to her, averting his eyes. ‘Um … yes … I mean … I mean, let’s think. How did she put it?’
He was bright red, she noticed. And they weren’t even in the steam room yet.
‘Your turn to wash,’ said Astrid, dropping the towel to the floor as she moved towards the sauna. Leif, overcome, leapt back – onto the soap – and pitched, fully clothed, into the cold pool.
Side by side in the sauna, it was Astrid who had to remember most of the troll’s poem. Leif, clinging to the towel and staring at his feet, was still having trouble concentrating.
‘So,’ she said, ‘if we’re going to go out searching for this beast, we need to work out what the troll-mother meant. So far we’ve remembered:
‘It hailed from the hawk-land,
High and grim and shining.
It brought the bright hall-wolf,
Bad thiever of forests.
‘Its fast battle-fire
Fell swift on my Aurnir,
A flurry of wind-oars
Overcame his attacks.’
‘Well,’ she went on, ‘the hawk-land is obviously the sky, even I can tell that, so of course it was “high”. What about “shining”?’
‘Those next two lines just mean “fire”,’ said Leif.
‘Then why say “fast battle-fire” as well? Stupid troll …’
‘No,’ said Leif, ‘I think that one means “sword”. And “wind-oars” are wings. Well, we knew that.’
‘So: the beast came from the sky, with fire, and attacked Aurnir with a sword. And its wings. Hmm,’ said Astrid. ‘The question is, how much do we rely on the poetic ravings of a half-mad troll. I’ll repeat that: troll.’
‘If it weren’t for the wings, she might have been describing a lightning bolt,’ said Leif. ‘You saw the blasted trees. It all makes sense.’
‘And the … the body … It was definitely burnt.’
‘Maybe the wings were poetic licence? But then, they came into all my visions …’
‘I’m still saying dragon,’ said Astrid. ‘T
hat wouldn’t be so bad. Imagine how happy it would make Knut, getting to fight a dragon!’
‘We can’t tell Knut of this, nor your parents,’ said Leif. ‘The stones said they would never ask their help.’ No; they had chosen him as their champion. His chest swelled secretly at the thought. ‘You’re always saying how you’re overlooked,’ he pointed out. ‘This is our chance to prove ourselves, Astrid.’
‘Oh, I’m ready for the fight, if you are,’ she said. ‘And what’s more, I can prove it!’
Leif gulped when he saw what was in her hand, and he remembered the traditional ending to a sauna … ‘Ow! Astrid, put those birch twigs down! Astrid!’
They emerged, blinking at the sunlight, to the blare of horns and the thud of many hoofs.
Astrid paused. ‘We can’t present ourselves like this,’ she said. ‘At least, I can’t.’ They were loosely robed in thin linen shifts.
‘If something’s happening, I want to watch,’ said Leif, and tugged her after him. Together they scampered to the shadowed side of the hall, flattening themselves against the smooth wooden posts that slanted down from the outer wall. From here, they could see it all.
A swirl of horsemen poured from the road into the space before the hall doors. First among them, flanked by his Norwegian nephews, was Haralt. He wore a fine white tunic, edged with beaver, that Astrid had not seen before. ‘Maybe Jarl Tofi’s started a new fashion,’ she smirked.
Haralt reined in his mount, calling for grooms, his sparse blond beard glinting on his jutted-out chin in the brilliant morning light. The din of a dozen flapping cloaks crowded with the sound of restless hoofs, breaking up the clean and quiet air.
Behind the riders, a wagon yawed into the yard. There was something odd about it, and Astrid scrunched her eyes up against the sun to make it out. The cart was a simple, rickety affair – nothing she hadn’t seen before – except that above it flew a yellow banner emblazoned with a black, two-headed eagle, wings spread. Below the banner stood a high wooden cross.